Between Two Worlds
by Le Masque31
Summary: "'There will be a war,' he tells me as though I actually care." Lord Voldemort has been imprisoned in Nurmengard for almost ten years, with Harry Potter as his only visitor. War being imminent, Harry now needs a favor. SLASH HP/LV


Disclaimer: Not mine. I just take them out to play, in perhaps ungodly ways.

* * *

I do not turn around when he comes into the cell; I keep my eyes fixed upon the stretch of green roiling sea visible from the window; I believe I have not seen a sliver of sunlight in weeks, perhaps even months. He gives a slight, awkward cough into the silence.

"Are they treating you well?" he asks, as he asked ten years ago when he first came to visit; I was in Azkaban at the time. As then, I choose not to answer. I know this is not the real purpose of his visit – there is no one left to treat me in any way, and we both know it. Ten years ago, he wanted to wheedle out of me the location of my eighth Horcrux. I have an inkling as to what he needs this time. Ten years ago, he went away empty-handed. I smile at the memory, and my face feels strained with the unfamiliar movement. Nobody, not even their precious Golden Boy, has every guessed that beneath the ruins of Wool's Orphanage there lies a rusty, broken mouth organ, or that it is not really a mouth organ at all, or even that the rust is not actually rust, but blood. I smile even wider. He coughs again, and I finally turn to face him. Messy black hair wilder than ever, hard lines around the mouth, dark shadows beneath oddly dull green eyes, Harry Potter gazes at me almost pleadingly.

"There will be a war," he tells me as though I actually care. "It's not yet been released to the public, but it's all looking very bad." At my lack of reaction, he adds, "It's unavoidable."

And he pads softly to the bed, and I scoot aside to let him sit beside me. The weight of his head against my shoulder is familiar, comforting. My arm winds around his waist, and he sighs as I pull him closer.

"Please," he murmurs, his warm breath tickling the skin of my neck.

"They'll have both our heads," I whisper back, my voice strangely low and hoarse with disuse.

"They won't. We'll all die without you."

I remain silent for so long that he eventually presses his lips against mine to draw some, any, reaction from me. I chuckle when we break apart, the sound bouncing off the stone walls in eerie, hollow echoes.

"What would your wench of a wife say if she saw you now?" I jeer, but there is no malice in my tone and my taunts are only half-hearted.

"She'd understand," he replies. His eyes meet mine, and he quickly looks away. We both know he does not believe his own words.

"What's in it for me?" I ask once his head is back on my shoulder. He tenses, surprised.

"Freedom."

"I'll be back here once it's over."

"No, you won't. I'll give you protection."

"Bless you, child. You're so sweet. Who in Merlin's name do you think will give a shit about you if you start bellowing at the top of your lungs – you, the Chosen One – that I am not truly evil?"

"I'm not a child."

"No," I reply softly, with a hint of sadness, "No, I forget you are not." I stroke his hair, trace his jaw with my fingertips.

"I'll hide you. Please. We're all dead otherwise."

"What do I care for the wizarding world, Harry?" He draws back, startled.

"You – I thought… You were the one who wanted to preserve the purity of magical blood." He looks positively flustered now.

"Harry, Harry, the purebloods will simply vanish. Have you forgotten that most of them are Slytherins?" He bursts into a fit of loud laughter. I scowl at him.

"There are no longer any purebloods, Tom." I am still scowling. He grins at me. "Everybody's interbred with everybody." I cannot counter his claims, and, indeed, I gave up my obsession with blood purity two years into my imprisonment. Just before I gave up hope of ever escaping Nurmengard.

"Please," he says again, softer and quieter than before. "The Muggles will hunt us down like they did before the introduction of the Statute of Secrecy. There's a lot more of them, y'know."

I do not share my thoughts with him, and our conversation lapses into silence. He eventually disentangles himself from my limbs and heads toward the door. I listen to his footsteps, muffled by the coldness, the heaviness of the stone walls; I listen to his breath, warm and gentle like the breeze in spring; and I remember how, last time and the times before that, that exhale drifted over my skin, those hands of his rubbed and stroked, the wetness of his mouth surrounded me, the very heat of him brought me to the edge as I thrust into him again and again…

"I'll do it," I say suddenly. He stops, hand on the doorknob. As he turns around and smiles at me, I realize he knew I would not refuse.

"I love you," he says; then he's gone.


End file.
